


A Handful of Dust

by aparticularbandit



Category: Hannibal (TV), Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F, alana does!, anyway, but - Freeform, but i felt like there would be a lot of ooc and character issues to make lu completely will, but it's not a true one-to-one, but you know, i don't know who else will be making an appearance, rose is taking hannibal's role and lu's taking will's, rose taking on hannibal's place fits fairly well, so it's not a true one-to-one like i said, starting it anyway, still not sure exactly what all i'm keeping and changing, this is more of a fusion fic than a true crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22540249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: Roisa as Hannigram fic.Except Luisa's not Will.She IS a vegetarian and she DOES have a tiny house and her own little small garden farm and she DOES wear a lot of flannel.Because flannel-wearing Luisa and occasional suit-wearing Rose is kind of great.  You know it is.  No judging.
Relationships: Luisa Alver/Rose Solano
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

Certain images are best seen in the hollow of closed eyes, where your mind paints the picture of it instead of letting light filter through and ruin what should be illuminated. This is one of them, and yet it remains to be seen how you, dear reader, might close your eyes and read without your fingers hovering over raised text and sensing them – and perhaps that is the best way to see this, sensing it by fingers on letters and words and spaces, feeling for it instead of trying to see it with eyes that will, inevitably, miss something. Perhaps, instead, you might choose to hear the words spoken aloud to you, but then the voice must be one soft spoken, soothing, such that you might fall asleep to its dulcet tones.

How best do I draw this image for you?

Darkness precedes an image otherwise filled with light. The walls of the study are covered with an emerald and deep purple striped wallpaper with golden curlicues resting at the top of certain, meticulously chosen, stripes. Bookshelves, two stories tall, line opposing sides of the room, one flanking a fireplace with an iron covering, the other with a balcony on its second story that interrupts the long lines of wooden shelving. One wall holds the door through which a guest or an intruder might enter, the other a large window bordered with plush, velvet curtains, and it is through this window that light fills the room, cascading across the mahogany desk situated in front of it, covering the occupant of its sole, ornately carved chair with nothing but shadow.

She leans across the desk, lifts a wave of her red hair from falling into her face, and writes in a style just as crafted as her office and the angelic appearance which she exudes. The words themselves matter less and little than the quill with which she writes them, the ornamental golden ring situated on her right middle finger while the rest of them remain bare, the paperweight image of the figure of Michelangelo’s Pieta next to one of St. Peter’s basilica, sketches of others’ art littered beneath further studies of patients and personal notations.

One might briefly wonder if the owner has any sort of filing system if they could be distracted by such a thing from the image before them, and if they were close enough to ask it, the woman in question would glance up with a twinkle in her crystal blue eyes as though to intimate that your question is both intriguing and loathsome. She would direct you instead to the multitude of books lining her walls so that you might peruse them and enlighten your mind with them instead of with such intrusive questions on her particular manner of living.

She might even invite you to dine with her. It would be impolite to refuse.

Here, that is a criminal offense.

However, there are no phones or victims to interrupt her business or lack thereof, and so while you, dear reader, might want to see her startled from her quiet writing so that you might see her act, we shall instead leave you be with nothing but the image of her, situated behind a desk that would seem far too large for anyone else but seems well suited to her, with one leg carefully crossed over the other, sitting straight even as she writes, with her head bent just enough that her cascading red hair covers the letters.


	2. Chapter 2

“Rose, you need to get out more.”

“Good morning to you, too, Dr. Bloom.”

The words slip soft through her lips, lingering on the tip of her tongue before escaping into the air where they might be heard. Her deep blue eyes meet those of a lighter, icier vein, though their owner holds more warmth and passion than a hearty fire in the midst of winter – something contained in the flicker of mischief the redhead finds therein on looking. However, Dr. Bloom all too quickly turns her gaze elsewhere, to the courtyard in front of them scattered and full of students. She brings her thermos of coffee to her lips and smiles. “You don’t visit me here often enough. I have to get the comment in while I can.”

Rose’s strides shorten to match the length of the gentle doctor next to her. Her accoutrements, although still just as meticulously chosen, don’t enhance her natural beauty the way they normally do, and yet she still draws the attention of many students passing them by. It would be impossible, in her opinion, for them to _not_ look. She and Alana Bloom make a smart pair – Alana in her patterned wrap dresses cinched about her waist, Rose herself in a simple cream blouse and floral skirt, sunny for the warm weather – both with the same sort of wave to their hair, both amused by the looks they are gaining. Her style has been imprinted on the younger woman, to a certain extent, as though they were sisters…or something else.

“How could I not visit you? I’m sure if you had been free, you would have come to me.”

Her eyes glance to the dark-haired woman next to her, only to see the little doctor staring back at her, one corner of her lips quirking upward in the gentlest of smiles. “You’re always so certain of that.”

“You haven’t failed me yet.” Rose offers her own gentlest of smiles to the woman next to her. They continue to walk together through the yard. Her fingers fidget with the golden ring decorating her right middle finger, twisting it back and forth. A squirrel wanders in front of them, then freezes as it swivels its head and meets her eyes; acknowledging a far superior predator than any who might hunt it, the squirrel scampers away. “If I _were_ to get out more,” she begins, feigning hesitation, “what would you have me do?” She lets slip a sigh and pauses on the grounds, glancing toward the sky before letting her gaze linger on the little doctor once more. “I cannot spend _all_ of my time with you, and you know how bored I grow with most other people.”

“I’ll take your interest in me as a compliment.”

The chuckle falls easy. “You’re _better_ than most other people. You know this.” Her hand waves through the air in a circular motion before she can be corrected. “Better at maintaining my interest, not as a qualitative measurement of your intrinsic nature or humanity, all people being equal, yet their strengths and weaknesses are not.” She allows her head to tilt ever so slightly to one side, her waves cascading in what should be an alluring fashion down one shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” The little doctor’s lips lift again, and while her cold blue eyes do not seem any softer, her sharpened features do. “Allow me to set you up.” Her smile darkens into a grin carrying the same mischief that her eyes did earlier as the redhead’s brows raise in an indication that she should continue. “I have a friend who I think would intrigue you.” She begins to walk again, hooking elbows with the redhead and drawing her along with her. “She was a medical doctor, so you don’t have to worry about any sort of mental analysis. However,” and here she stops abruptly, turning and meeting the redhead’s eyes in a way meant to convey how important this is to her, “I don’t want you analyzing her either.”

“Then how will she hold my interest?”

Alana’s smile softens, her gaze falling, which says everything Rose needs to hear before she even speaks. “You’ll see.”


	3. Chapter 3

Rose Ruvelle’s car idles down an unfamiliar country road so far removed from society that it is nothing more than a mixture of dirt and gravel that would likely be nothing more than mud and clay if it rained a little too hard. But now it is sunny and hot, and the dust swirls dark gold in the sunlight as the wheels of her car stir it into the air. She glances at the handwritten directions Dr. Bloom gave her a few days previous; at this point, it should just be a straight shot down this road to the singular house at the end of it, but the further she drives away from civilization, the more the countryside turns to just that – fields that might loom empty in the future but currently seem filled to the brim with corn.

It occurs to her that Alana is playing a prank on her.

Then the cornfields level out to much flatter, barren ones, and there, just there, in the distance, Rose can just make out the outline of a looming two-story house at what she hopes is the end of the road. The closer she drives, though, the more the house seems like it has been completely abandoned: the shutters and roof seem old and stained with rain damage, the paneling on the outside covered with dark spots and wind damage, the windows cloudy and as though they haven’t been cleaned in months. Rose parks in what she hopes is the driveway and steps out from her car, regretting her choice of heels and reprimanding herself for listening to Alana without considering any sort of back up.

There is no answer when Rose knocks on the door with one bare knuckle; instead, the door swings open with a loud creaking noise, revealing a dark, dusty interior. Her lips purse into a thin line, but she has come this far. Her old student – if she truly is in jest, which seems more and more likely the closer Rose examines this issues – would have something planned for her intrusion just as sure as the unlocked door opened with a simple yet hearty knock on its creaking exterior. She steps inside, notes the fine point and print of her heels in the dust, and covers her lips with her arm so as not to breathe in what she may be disturbing.

The door is left open behind her. No one else is out this far. There are no other cars in what she’d decided was, at one point, the driveway before everything else fell into disrepair.

There are two doors – one to her right and the other to her left – and a stairway that leads to the second story and above. Knowing Alana like she does, Rose expects whatever the little doctor has waiting for her will be at the farthest room upstairs, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t wander about and explore the rest of the house to see what else – if anything – her friend has left in wait for her. She chooses to go to the right first and is greeted with a room a little less in disrepair than the entryway. The window seems recently washed on the inside; even though the desk is covered with another fine layer of dust, there are fingerprints – likely Alana’s, although as Rose draws closer she acknowledges that they _can’t_ be; Rose knows the set of Alana’s hands and how her little fingers press against foreign objects, and this does not match their spread – and a few circles that are without dust, as though something that was once set there had been recently moved.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Rose moves from what she guesses must have once been the office – the desk pushed up against the window so that its single user could look out on the vast fields of their acreage as they wrote – and into the kitchen. There is absolutely no dust here. The countertops are mostly bare, but there is a little white teapot with blue floral designs on it sitting on the stovetop. She picks the teapot up, but it seems as though there is nothing remaining inside. Still, she can smell the still lingering scent of chamomile and lavender tea in the air.

She wishes it was rose petal tea. Perhaps, if she scours the cabinets, and if she finds a little bit of honey and the makings for biscuits—

Alana, of course, is aware of these particular vices of hers, and if she wanted those things laid out, she would have done them. In fact, if Alana had any real sense of planning at all, the lingering scent would _be_ rose petal tea instead of this chamomile lavender mixture.

She moves on.

The kitchen connects to a large den. On one side, there is a large, looming fireplace full of ashes that someone has forgotten to remove – it isn’t cold enough for fire, it’s barely the beginning of spring as it fades into the heat of summer, these have been left far too long – and surrounding the fireplace are what appear to be places where large beanbags once lay, where they have left a fine trail through the dust towards the entryway, where it seems that whoever was moving them must have picked them up and carried them…wherever it was they had gone. A few of those big bean bags are still left in scattered locations around the room, and on closer examination, they appear to be covered with…dog hair. Rose glances up – there are hooks hanging from the ceiling for something – potted plants, maybe, but there are no leaves left on the floor, and whomever might have left the house in this form of disarray wouldn’t have cared enough to sweep up any falling leaves. She knelt down to the floor and found a feather—

The breeze through the front door carries the scent of sweat, dirt, and a hint of wet dog all covered with a much louder perfume of cinnamon and honey.

“I take it you’re Dr. Ruvelle.”

_Ah. So the surprise was not upstairs. Fair play, Dr. Bloom._

Rose straightens slowly, wiping her hands along her floral skirt even though there is not a trace of dirt or dust on them. She looks over to the doorway connection this room to the entryway. Her breath holds but does not stop, nor does her heart pound feverishly in her chest or glow an awkward color as it might in one of those telenovelas that the dear Dr. Bloom took so much enjoyment from watching – one of her few irreconcilably bad qualities.

Standing just in the doorway, leaning up against the frame, is a dark-skinned woman with darker hair pulled into a hasty side ponytail, with inquisitive warm eyes and a friendly, albeit amused, smile, with her hands hidden in the pockets of her shorts – ones that would have, at one point in time, been a pristine white but are currently stained with mud – there is a _paw print_ in that stain – and a blue and tan plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first few buttons undone. There’s a light sheen of sweat beading across her forehead, and her boots seem muddy as well.

“Yes,” Rose says in a carefully controlled, soft hush that borders on a whisper. She hopes the other woman will lean in to better hear her; she is pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. “Who might I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“She didn’t tell you?” The woman’s head bends forward as a laugh escapes her lips, and she hunches forward, overcome by it. When she looks up again, her eyes twinkle with merriment. “You came out here and went through my house on just the _promise_ of a pretty girl?” She slaps her bare leg where it just escapes her shorts. “That is _so_ gay. I love you already!”

Rose watches all of this with intrigue and then smiles. Let her think what she wants. It does not matter. Many people have thought many things about her already; many of those things are untrue or only true within certain bounds and circumstances. She waits for the woman to compose herself.

“I’m Luisa,” the woman says finally, and she walks forward with a bright grin. “Luisa Alver. And if you are anything like Alana has told me, I think I’ll like you.” Luisa isn’t coy; she gives Rose a crude onceover, her grin strengthening. “I _already_ like you.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll like you.” Rose watches the other woman’s face, but there is no change.

In fact, if anything, Luisa looks almost smug. “It’s _impossible_ not to like me,” she says, and standing this close, Rose thinks that it’s entirely possible that she is absolutely right.


End file.
